The Murder Book

Schwartzman's brush pointed at the party house.

'You suspect one of the Cossacks poisoned Sumi?'

'I don't suspect, I know,' said Schwartzman. 'But I can't prove it. The daughter. She's mad, quite definitely. Walks around talking to herself, a bizarre look in her eyes, all hunched over. Wears the same clothes for days on end. And she brings black boys home- clearly not right. Sumi despised her. Dogs have a nose for madness. Anytime that crazy girl walked by, poor Sumi would fly into a rage, throw himself against the gate, it was all I could do to calm him down. And let me tell you, Detective, the only time he responded that way was to stranger intrusion. Protective, Akitas are, that's the whole point of an Akita. But sweet and smart- he loved the Cantwells, even grew accustomed to the gardeners and the mailman. But never to that girl. He knew when someone was wrong. Simply despised her. I'm sure she poisoned him. The day I found his poor body, I spied her. Watching me through a second-story window. That pair of mad eyes. Staring. I stared right back and waved my fist, and you'd better believe that drapery snapped back into place. She knew that I knew. But soon after, she came out and walked past me- right past me, staring. She's a frightening thing, that girl. Hopefully that party was the last time we'll see them around here.'

'She was at the party?' said Milo.

Dr. Schwartzman crossed her arms across her bosom. 'Have you been listening to me, young man? I told you, I didn't get close enough to check.'

'Sorry,' said Milo. 'How old is she?'

'Seventeen or eighteen.'

'Younger than her brothers.'

'Those two,' said Schwartzman. 'So arrogant.'

'Ever have any problems with the brothers other than parties?'

'All the time. Their attitude.'

'Attitude?'

'Entitled,' said Schwartzman. 'Smug. Just thinking about them makes me angry, and anger is bad for my health, so I'm going to resume my calligraphy. Good day.'

Before Milo could utter another syllable, the door slammed shut and he was staring at teak. No sense pushing it; Frau Doktor Schwartzman could probably beat him in an arm wrestle. He returned to the car, sat there wondering if anything she'd said mattered.

The Cossack brothers had a bad attitude. Like every other rich kid in L.A.

The sister, on the other hand, sounded anything but typical- if Schwartzman could be believed. And if Schwartzman's suspicion about her dog was right, Sister Cossack's quirkiness was something to worry about.

Seventeen years old made Caroline Cossack an age peer of Janie Ingalls and Melinda Waters. A rich girl with a wild side and access to the right toys might very well have attracted two street kids.

Taking black boys home. Racism aside, that spelled rebel. Someone willing to push the envelope.

Dope, a couple of party girls venturing from Hollywood into uncharted territory… still, it came down to nothing more than rumor, and he had nowhere to take it.

He stared at the empty party house, took in Bel Air silence, shabby grace, a lifestyle he'd never attain. Feeling out of his element, every inch the ignorant rookie.

And now he had to report back to Schwinn.

This is a whodunit. This likes to munch on your insides, then shit you out in pellets…

The bastard's reproachful voice had crept into his head and camped there, obnoxious but authoritative.

While Milo'd spun his wheels, Schwinn had come up with the single useful lead on the Ingalls case: the tip that had led them straight to Janie's father.

A source he wouldn't identify. Not even bothering to be coy, coming right out and accusing Milo of spying for the brass.

Because he knew he was under suspicion? Maybe that's why the other D's seemed to shun the guy. Whatever was going on, Milo'd been shoved square in the middle of it… he had to push all that aside and concentrate on the job. But the job- going nowhere- made him feel inadequate.

Poor Janie. And Melinda Waters- what was the chance she was alive? What would she look like when they finally found her?

It was nearly noon and he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. But he could find no reason to stop for grease. Had no appetite for anything.

CHAPTER 10

He arrived back at the station wondering if Schwinn had returned and hoping he hadn't. Before he made it to the stairwell, the desk sergeant said, 'Someone's waiting for you,' without looking up.

'Who?'

'Go see for yourself. Interview Five.'

Something in the guy's voice pinged Milo's gut. 'Interview Five?'

'Uh-huh.' The blue kept his head down, busy with paperwork.

An interrogation room. Someone being questioned- a suspect for Ingalls in custody so soon? Had Schwinn pulled off another solo end run?

'I wouldn't keep them waiting,' said the sergeant, writing something down, still avoiding eye contact.

Milo peered over the counter, saw a crossword puzzle book. 'Them.'

No answer.

Milo hurried down the too-bright corridor that housed the interview rooms and knocked on Five. A voice, not Schwinn's, said, 'Come in.'

He opened the door and came face-to-face with two tall men in their thirties. Both were broad-shouldered and good-looking, in well-cut charcoal suits, starched white shirts, and blue silk ties.

Corporate Bobbsey twins- except one guy was white- Swedish pink, actually, with a crew cut the color of cornflakes- and the other was black as the night.

Together they nearly spanned the width of the tiny, stale room, a two-man offensive line. Black had opened the door. He had a smooth, round head topped by a razor-trimmed cap of ebony fuzz and glowing, hairless, blue-tinged skin. The clear, hard eyes of a drill instructor. His unsmiling mouth was a fissure in a tar pit.

Pinkie hung toward the rear of the tiny room, but he was the first to speak.

'Detective Sturgis. Have a seat.' Reedy voice, Northern inflection- Wisconsin or Minnesota. He pointed to the room's solitary chair, a folding metal affair on the near side of the interrogation table, facing the one-way mirror. The mirror, not even close to subterfuge, every suspect knew he was being observed, the only question was by whom? And now Milo was wondering the same thing.

'Detective,' said the black man. Offering him the suspect chair.

On the table was a big, ugly Satchell-Carlson reel-to-reel tape recorder, the same gray as the twins' suits. Everything color-coordinated- like some psychology experiment and guess who was the guinea pig…

'What's going on?' he said, remaining in the doorway.

'Come in and we'll tell you,' said Pinkie.

'How about a proper introduction?' said Milo. 'As in who are you and what's this all about?' Surprising himself with his assertiveness.

The suits weren't surprised. Both looked pleased, as if Milo had confirmed their expectation.

'Please come in,' said Black, putting some steel into 'please.' He came closer, stepped within inches of Milo's nose, and Milo caught a whiff of expensive aftershave, something with citrus in it. The guy was taller than Milo- six- four or -five- and Pinkie looked every bit as big. Size was one of the few advantages Milo figured God had given him; for the most part, he'd used it to avoid confrontation. But between these guys and the Wagnerian Dr. Schwartzman it had been a bad day for exploiting body type.

'Detective,' said Black. His face was strangely inanimate- an African war mask. And those eyes. The guy had